Such Nice Things
by SilenceintheGraveyard
Summary: An alternate ending to the scene in the underground car in "The Empty Hearse" (series 3, episode 1), in which John makes a confession brought on by imminent death. Johnlock.
1. Such Nice Things

A/N: Some of the dialogue is taken directly from the actual episode. What can I say, I love sticking to the cannon only to dance sharply away from it *winks*.

 **Such Nice Things**

If ever there were miracles, now was the time for one. Fingers to temples, face screwed up in concentration, eyes darting beneath their lids like REM sleep-How to diffuse a bomb…how to diffuse a bomb…he hadn't been lying about that. Physics? Of course. Chemistry? No problem. Deduction? All day. But engineering? Not enough. He didn't know, he didn't…but he had to try. Sherlock sprinted down the corridors of his mind palace, skidding to a stop outside a door labeled "Engineering." He crashed through the door into a lab-like room, but he didn't stop to look around. He raced around the room, ripping open drawers and rifling through the papers within, scattering them on the floor around him. _Come on, come on, there had to be something, anything_! But he was too frantic; his eyes darted from the pages before he'd had a good look, and things were blurred about the edges. He blinked and suddenly found himself in a library, a film reel playing all of his favorite memories of John. _John. No no no, I've got to concentrate!_ And he willed himself back into engineering. But there was nothing to find.

"I can't!" Sherlock yelled, every ounce of frustration erupting from him as he came back to reality.

He panted, staring into John's eyes. John stared back, disbelief painted on every feature of his face. Because he, Sherlock, had failed.

"Oh my god!" John said, turning away.

Sherlock ripped off his stifling scarf, kneeling down by the bomb, looking for an answer. Forget Parliament, forget the hundreds of people that would die, forget himself; he had to save John.

"This is it," John said, almost matter-of-factly.

No, this wasn't it! Sherlock's search became for frantic, feeling along the bomb, trying to think of something.

"Oh my god," John said again.

That's when Sherlock found it; the little switch on the side of the bomb. He switched it to the "off" position, and passed his relieved laughter off has desperate muttering. Of course there was a switch, there's always a switch! Damn emotions clouding his head, that was all. But there was an opportunity to be had here, and Sherlock took it. He looked slowly up at John from his position on the ground, his face a mask of disbelief.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"What?" John said.

"I can't…I can't do it, John." It was surprisingly easy to hold the façade, perhaps because the feelings had been all too real just a moment ago.

"I don't know how. Forgive me."

"What?" John said again with astounding disbelief.

Sherlock was always able to read people, always. Most of what he knew about John was what he'd deduced. But these emotions…he'd never been good at them.

"Please, John, forgive me, for all the hurt that I caused you," Sherlock said.

And he really did mean it; not about the bomb, but the whole "not dead" thing. He really was sorry. If only John knew, if only he could tell him what torture those two years had been, being parted from him. But he'd never been good at emotions.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, this is a trick," John insisted.

Sherlock fought the urge to smile. Faithful John, never giving up on him. Not when he'd told him the deductions were a trick, not even now.

"No," Sherlock lied.

"Another one of your bloody tricks,"

"No," god, how long was he going to stay angry?

"You're just trying to get me to say something nice," John said.

 _Well, yes_ , Sherlock thought, unable to hide the smile this time. "Not this time," he said.

"It's just to make you look good even though you've behaved like…" but John couldn't go on. Tears were coming; he was trying to hold them back.

Sherlock felt guilt filling his stomach. He really had underestimated the hurt he'd caused. His poor John. Just please…forgiveness…that's all he wanted. They both sighed. Sherlock felt unbidden tears in his own eyes. They weren't part of the façade, they were real. Because he cared…he cared too much…for John. And he was still so—

"I wanted you not to be dead," John whispered.

Sherlock looked up at him in surprise. The words meant more than he wanted them to.

"Yeah, well, be careful what you wish for," he said. "If I hadn't come back you wouldn't be standing there and…you'd still have a future…with Mary."

That was perhaps the most painful thing, which of course made it the most confusing. Mary—smart, beautiful, John's fiancé—who he wanted to hate but didn't, and he couldn't understand why it hurt him so much.

"Yeah, I know," John said, pacing back and forth in a desperate search for words. "Look, I find it difficult, I find it difficult, this sort of stuff."

"I know," Sherlock said, after all, he did too.

"You were the best and the wisest man that I have ever known," and John's whispered voice broke near the end.

A warm feeling spread through Sherlock's body, and he looked up at John with touched surprise. This was something he thought he'd never hear.

"Yes of course, I forgive you," John said.

Happiness…that's what the warm feeling was Sherlock decided. And he noticed he'd dropped the façade a few moments back. As he stared at John, the latter took in a huge, steadying breath.

"I love you," he said.

Sherlock stared at John, unable to process what he'd just said. His entire body seemed to have gone numb.

"What?" Sherlock whispered; it was his turn to not understand what was going on.

"I…love…you," John repeated, staring steadily at Sherlock with his stormy blue eyes.

 _I love you. I love you._ The feeling was coming back into Sherlock's body. It felt as though his chest had been filled with helium, like his organs were fluttering upwards. He'd never felt this before…what was it? He thought back to all the times he'd spent with John, searching for similar feelings. Whenever he made a particularly impressive deduction and John said "amazing"—no, that was pride. Whenever John defended him and stuck by his side, his loyalty—affection, ah yes, that was closer! Let's see, whenever John smiled at him…when they were in the midst of the chase…when they spent quiet evenings at home…when John made fun of him, calling him a show-off and reminding him to "pop his collar" and the like…yes. Sherlock knew the feeling now. It was joy, all consuming overwhelming joy, because John Watson loved him.

"I love you too," Sherlock said, bewildered, a few tears falling down his smiling face.

John looked like he felt the same way Sherlock did when the former said it first, but Sherlock was impatient. There was no time for that! He held his arms out to John, desiring only to hold him, to feel him in his arms. A fire lit behind John's eyes, and he ran for Sherlock, collapsing into him, and their lips connected almost before John hit the ground.

Their kisses were frantic, their hands going everywhere, both feeling as though they could never be close enough. Years of pent-up passion were their fuel. John's lips and hands were desperate, as though he was trying to know every bit of Sherlock he could before time ran out. It took Sherlock a few minutes to remember John really did think these were their last moments. In fact Sherlock, his head so full of John, had believed that too. He'd completely forgotten they were safe.

Sherlock wrenched his mouth away from John's, who simply continued to explore his jaw and neck.

"John," Sherlock gasped.

"Oh, just shut up for once," John moaned.

"John, we're safe, we're safe," Sherlock said, grabbing John's shoulders and pushing him away a bit to make sure he understood (though it burned him).

"What?" John said.

"The bomb. It's stopped, we're safe."

"The bomb…" John pushed himself up and crawled over to the bomb. Of course, he saw the counter had stopped.

"You utter…"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, laughing a bit at John's annoyance. "There was an off switch."

"An off switch?"

"There's always an off switch. Terrorists can get themselves into quite a bit of trouble if there's no off switch."

"So I was right, it was a trick!"

"Yes, yes, you're very smart."

"I don't believe you!"

"Aw, but you said such nice things," Sherlock said, putting on a bit of a pout.

John rolled his eyes and was on Sherlock again in an instant, and Sherlock was all too happy to comply.

"I suppose that does give us a bit more time, eh?" John said, his voice muffled by Sherlock's coat.

"Oh, that reminds me, I called the police."

And the police chose that moment to appear around the bend, shining their lights and banging around.

John pulled back and stared at him. "You called the police."

"Of course I did."

"Damn you!" John said, standing up.

"Hey, if all _this_ hadn't happened you'd be grateful!" Sherlock stood up too.

"Oh, that doesn't matter!" John crossed his arms over his chest, looking as tense as Sherlock felt. "How long is it going to take to get out of here?"

"Not to worry John," Sherlock said with a grin. "You know how fast I can talk."

Sherlock didn't really pay attention to the whole affair with the police; the interrogation, the questions, the inevitable confusion of ordinary people. He just explained everything he knew at light speed, hyper-aware of John standing just behind him…so close. Now they were in a taxi on their way back to Baker Street. John had his hand firmly clamped on Sherlock's leg, as though he was afraid he'd somehow dissolve into thin air if he let go. But he didn't mind, it was nice.

"I don't think I've ever heard you talk so fast," John remarked. "And that's saying something."

Sherlock looked away from the window to gaze at John.

"I promised you, didn't I?" he said with a smile.

But the smile faltered. There was something he wanted to do, something he'd always wanted to do but even now was afraid to do it. He thought about it carefully. They'd both been through so much recently, and tonight was a night of confessions and experiments. He decided to do it. But it would make him so vulnerable.

Heart pounding, hands shaking, Sherlock leaned over until his head rested on John's shoulder. He sought security in the hollow of his neck, the warmth of his body, that particular scent that clung to his skin. He sighed.

"Are you alright?" John asked.

"I'm fine, John." When had those words ever been truer?

A few minutes later and the taxi stopped outside 221 B. Sherlock and John climbed out and hurried to the door. Sherlock felt the electricity of closeness spark between them. He wondered if John felt it too. Mrs. Hudson was waiting for them in the hall when they got inside.

"Oh there you boys are. Where have you been? Mycroft's been calling—"

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock interrupted, grabbing John's hand and dragging him up the stairs before she could say another word.

Once inside their flat Sherlock slammed the door and bolted it, then turned around to gaze at John.

"Are you blushing?" Sherlock said with amused disbelief.

John rubbed his face, no doubt feeling the fire burning beneath the skin.

"Ah…I suppose I am."

"Why on earth would you be doing a silly thing like that?"

"Well, just…ahem…ah, Mrs. Watson, you see. We were having a conversation the…the other day and I…well, I-I told her you weren't my boyfriend."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Well that wasn't exactly a lie now, was it?"

"No, but…"

"But nothing! Since when have you cared?"

John shook his head and stared at Sherlock—the stare he always gave him when the former thought the latter was overlooking basic human feeling. Sherlock merely grinned at him, nodding his head towards the bedroom. John laughed a bit.

"You really are impossible," he said.

The two walked into Sherlock's bedroom, but as the bed came into view Sherlock froze, feeling a bite of fear and nervousness. _Nerves!_ Those weren't something Sherlock Holmes suffered from.

John seemed to notice and turned around, looking concerned.

"Hey, you okay?" he asked.

"It's just…" Sherlock licked his lips and stared around the room, as though all the answers and reassurance he needed were hidden somewhere in the corners. "John, I…I've never done anything like this before."

"Well that's okay, neither have I," John said softly.

"No, I…" God, why was this so hard? "I mean I've never done _anything_ like this. _Anything._ Not ever."

A warm smile crossed John's face when he understood. He stepped closer to Sherlock.

"Hey, it's fine," he said, rubbing Sherlock's arms. "It's all fine. Don't be afraid."

Sherlock nodded, a small smile crossing his face.

"Now come here," John said, sitting on the edge of the bed and discarding his jacket.

Sherlock stepped forward obediently, every nerve ending alive with nervous anticipation. John patted the spot beside him, and Sherlock sat. Then John reached up and carefully removed Sherlock's coat and scarf. Next was his suit jacket, then both their shoes. With shaking hands, Sherlock unbuttoned John's flannel. _Why so many clothes?_ Sherlock thought. _Why so many layers_? John was working on his purple shirt now, button-by-button. When the shirt was open, John ran a hand down Sherlock's bare chest. His tactile nerves exploded, sending signals to the pleasure centers of his brain.

"Just like this," John murmured as Sherlock worked on his plaid shirt. "Gentle and familiar."

"It what way is this familiar?" Sherlock piped.

"Shut up."

"Oooh-kay."

John reached out to cradle Sherlock's face in his hands. "I meant every word I said."

"I know," Sherlock nodded.

Sherlock felt that _he_ should say something now, but he didn't know what. He gazed into John's stormy eyes, his pupils dilated to endless black pools, and the words just came. "John, I...I always thought that love was an unfortunate weakness…human error…a flaw in the chemistry of the brain. I told you once that alone I'm safe. And I always believed all of that. But if I was right John…I don't want to be safe. I never want to be parted from you because…oh god I love you."

"I love you too," John said, and leaned in to kiss him again.

"Just tell me one more thing," Sherlock said.

"What?"

"Why are my clothes still on?"

John laughed, and they continued to shed their garments.

The passion here and now was different from the passion they'd shared in the carriage, Sherlock thought. Then it had been a desperate, consuming, impatient thing. Like a raging forest fire. Now it was slow, savored, and strong, like the glowing embers. And that was a wonderful thing…

It was late, late in the night, and Sherlock lie awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling, floating in a bliss that no amount of nicotine patches could ever compare to. John was sleeping next to him. Sherlock could feel his warm form pressed against his side. He rolled over to that side to get a better view. He reached out a hand and began to pet John's back. Sherlock made a mental note, adding this to the list of most pleasurable things in this world; that included deduction, a good case, the thrill of the chase, etc.

"I wonder if this will end up in the blog," Sherlock mused.

"Unlikely," John muttered through the pillow.

"I thought you were asleep!" Sherlock said, propping himself up on his elbow.

"I was," John said, rolling over. "But you're idea of gentle petting is more like karate-chop massage!"

"Hahaha, I'm sorry." Sherlock laughed.

"Never mind. What time is it?"

"Almost four-thirty," Sherlock said, checking the clock across the room.

"Have you been up all this time?" John asked.

"Couldn't sleep," he said with a shrug.

"Is that my fault?"

"hmmm…maybe," He said coyly.

But just then an uncomfortable thought occurred to Sherlock, and he dropped back down onto his back with a sigh, turning his face away from John.

"Something wrong?" John asked.

"No, it's just…what are you going to tell Mary?"

The truth was, Sherlock was terrified of the answer. He'd gone over all the possibilities after John had gone to sleep. The one that kept recurring was "nothing," as in, this was a secret, possibly one-time thing. After all, he had practically proposed to the woman.

"Are you worried about that?" John asked.

"No," Sherlock lied.

"Well, I admit it's not going to be easy. I mean, we had a nice thing going. I was moving on. Then you show up out of the blue and change everything. Believe me, I've thought about this a lot—"

"What are you going to tell her?" Sherlock demanded

"The truth, Sherlock," John snapped. "I'm going to tell her the truth, and that I'm sorry. My decision was made the second you said you loved me back."

Sherlock turned back to John, feeling moved.

"Honestly, for a genius you can be such and idiot sometimes," John shook his head.

An instant later Sherlock had pulled John's lips to his; trying to put all the words he couldn't say into the kiss. By the feel of it, John understood. Sherlock had never been shown any kind of tenderness before, but John showed it over and over again throughout their lives together. It filled his entire being with such strong, implausible feelings. To Sherlock everything was a map, or information, or a puzzle waiting to be put together. But he couldn't apply any of that to John. At one time he could, but not anymore. Being with John, it was unpredictable, terrifying, and _new._ God, this man was going to ruin his life! And Sherlock was enjoying every minute of it.


	2. Basic Insecurities

**Basic Insecurities**

A few thin rays of sunlight escaped from the heavily curtained window. John groaned as he stretched and rolled over. He opened his eyes and found himself face to face with a sleeping Sherlock. He looked so…innocent while he was sleeping. Like a child. With a sigh, John stood up, slipped on one of Sherlock's dressing gowns, and crept up the stairs to his bedroom. Once there, he took a quick shower, dressed, and brushed his teeth.

One quick sweep of the lounge showed John that Sherlock still wasn't up. It was unlike him to sleep late, but then again he had been up quite late last night. A blush crept into John's face as he remembered the, ah, _activities_ …of last night. To be perfectly honest, John was still trying to sort through his emotions. "I love you" is an easy thing to say when death is staring you in the face. Everything after that had been fueled by adrenaline and desire. But could he say it again? Could he say "I love you" to Sherlock this mundane morning? Was he really, really in love with Sherlock Holmes? And did he really return those feelings?

John pondered this as he bustled about the kitchen making tea and toast. It wasn't that he was ashamed, so to speak. It was just…he'd spent so much time denying his feelings, to himself and other people. Not just denying it, adamantly denying it. Vehemently denying it. Just the thought of the smug "I told you so" looks on their friends' faces was enough to make him want to jump out the window.

"Morning, John," Sherlock said from the lounge.

John froze, nearly dropping the kettle as electricity trickled down his body. God, was this really the effect Sherlock was going to have on him now? He was irritating enough already.

"John?" Sherlock called.

"Yes, good morning, Sherlock."

"I'll have toast, butter on one side and jam on the other, no crusts," Sherlock said as he flopped down on the sofa.

"And what makes you think I'm making you breakfast?"

"Aren't you?"

 _Dammit, yes!_ John thought, but he said nothing. When the tea and toast were done, John carried Sherlock's into the lounge. He was in his customary position, sprawled out on the sofa with his fingers pressed together. He was wearing a dressing gown, and apparently nothing else.

"Here," John said, blushing a bit as he put the mug and plate on the coffee table.

Sherlock didn't respond, so John went back into the kitchen to eat at the table. He opened up his laptop to check his blog.

"John!" Sherlock called again.

"What?" John answered, not looking up.

"What are you doing over there?"

"Eating breakfast. I put yours right in front of you."

A faint rustling came from the lounge, then the sound of gentle laughter.

"You made it exactly right!" Sherlock said.

"So what?"

The laughter stopped. "I don't know," Sherlock said after a moment.

Silence fell, and John had finished his breakfast and checked his email before Sherlock spoke again.

"So…there's that little welcome-back gathering today," he said.

"You actually remembered that?" John said, looking up in surprise.

"I'm not obtuse, John. I can remember when there's a thing involving me."

"Alright, alright. So, what about it?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment, still lying motionless, not looking at John. At last he said, "What are we?"

"Sorry?" John said, confused.

"You, me, us, this whole…thing. I don't understand, what are we?" He sounded quite frustrated.

John understood what he was asking, but he wasn't sure of the answer. He stood up and walked over to the sofa. Sherlock watched him approach.

"Do you mind…?" John said.

Sherlock made room immediately, which was strange. He'd usually just stare John down until John either gave up or started arguing. Surprised, John sat down next to Sherlock.

"So…" Sherlock said, still not looking at John. "What are we?"

John sighed. "I don't know," he said.

Sherlock looked at him finally, grey eyes intense. "What do you mean, you don't know?"

"I-I dunno, I…" John gestured helplessly. "I honestly haven't thought about it. What do you want us to be?"

"That is not what I asked. That's the future…I'm asking what we are, right now, in this very moment."

Sherlock looked very agitated. John wondered what he was thinking…feeling. Sherlock was never easy to read.

"Um…well, it's only been one night. I-I haven't really had time to process—"

"Well you'd better think of an answer," Sherlock interrupted with a low growl.

John stared at him. "Why's it so important?"

"I need a name for it," Sherlock said. He was no longer looking at John.

"Why?" John asked.

"Names…names are words, words have definitions. I need it."

"Are you serious right now? A name…what does that matter? Honestly, people are so obsessed with labels nowadays, and you're the last person I'd expect to go along with that, why—"

"Because I don't understand John!" Sherlock shouted, unclenching himself and practically exploding with frustration.

John jumped back in surprise. Sherlock stared at him for a moment, eyes burning, then put his hands to his face and rubbed it, as though he was trying to destroy the feeling there.

"I don't understand…I don't, I…" Sherlock's voice was muffled by his hands.

John looked at Sherlock sadly, finally understanding. Of course, Sherlock was used to "the science of deduction" with all its specificities and clear, logical explanations. Emotions…those were unexplored territory. A name, a title, would help him put some sense into it. John slid back towards Sherlock until they were touching.

"Shh, it's okay," he said softly, gently pulling Sherlock's soft hands away from his face. "It's alright. C'mon now, Sherlock."

Sherlock gazed at him with those shining grey eyes. "What are we?" he whispered.

"Well," John said, thinking. "We are…flat mates. Best friends. Lovers. That's what we are. We have to choose if we want to be anything more."

"Like what?" Sherlock said with a frown.

"In an actual relationship, romantic relationship, I suppose. Dating, boyfriends, partners…"

"Partners," Sherlock repeated, cocking his head a bit.

John thought he saw something click behind Sherlock's eyes, and the gears begin to turn.

"I like that…partners. A double meaning. When introducing ourselves I'd say, 'I'm Sherlock Holmes and this is my partner John Watson,' and they wouldn't know to which definition we were referring, and they'd be trying to figure it out. But it would actually be both!"

Sherlock was grinning by now, and he turned enthusiastically to John, who was also smiling.

"Yes. Let's be partners, John."

"Alright," John laughed.

Affection won him over, his previous insecurities forgotten for a moment, and he climbed into Sherlock's lap. Sherlock twisted around so that his back was to the arm of the sofa. John leaned forward to kiss him, and found that his hunger the night before had not been abated by the loss of adrenaline. Sherlock responded enthusiastically, wrapping both his arms and legs around John. As John's mouth traveled down, exploring his jaw and neck, Sherlock whispered in his ear, "I've got you now, John. You're my prisoner," In a low, husky voice.

The sound of it made John want to rip his clothes off, and he was actually considering it. In fact, both of them were so wrapped up in each other that they didn't notice Mrs. Hudson had come into the room until she started speaking.

"Sherlock," she said, "you've got to let me clean in here for the little party—oh dear!"

She'd spotted them. John jumped violently and tried to leap away from Sherlock, but the latter held him fast.

"Oh no you don't," he said, and dragged him back into a tight embrace.

At first John thought Sherlock hadn't noticed Mrs. Hudson come in, but then he pushed them both into an upright position (still holding John in strong arms) and said, "Good morning, Mrs. Hudson."

John glanced up at Mrs. Hudson, only to find her staring open mouthed at the pair of them, eyes wide. John's face burned and he knew he must be a humiliating shade of red. Suddenly, Mrs. Hudson started to laugh.

"Oh, I knew it, I knew it!" She cried, jumping up and down (as much as an old lady could) and pointing at them. "I said all along, didn't I? And you thought you could lie to me John, you silly boy!"

"Okay, first of all, that wasn't a lie," John said. "Sherlock was not my boyfriend."

"But that's obviously changed now," Mrs. Hudson said.

"Indeed," Sherlock said into John's hair. "Now Mrs. Hudson if you wouldn't mind wiping that incredibly smug expression off your face, it's upsetting John."

"What makes you say that?" John said.

"Increased heart rate, tense muscles, sweaty palms. Simple, really.

Just then John's phone beeped. He fished it out of his pocket to see a new text.

"Ah, it's from Mary," he said, and felt Sherlock stiffen. "I'm supposed to meet her for lunch before the party."

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson said. "She sounded nice, that girl. What are you going to tell her?"

"The truth," John said, standing up and stretching. "I'd better get going. I'll be back soon, probably."

John walked over to the coat rack to grab his shoes and coat, then headed for the door.

"I hope it goes okay with Mary," Mrs. Hudson said, and John nodded.

"If she touches you I'll kill her!" Sherlock called after him.

"Goodbye, Sherlock," John said, shutting the door behind him.

It wasn't long before John returned to the flat accompanied—much to Sherlock's annoyance—by Mary. Sherlock glared at the pair of them as they walked in and John introduced her to Mrs. Hudson.

"I wasn't expecting to see you here, Mary. Unless…?" She looked questioningly at John.

"Yes, John explained it all to me," Mary said. "And I…I understand. I always thought…that is to say, I thought I sensed something not quite right in our relationship at times. I must admit I'm quite peeved at Sherlock, but…"

She walked over to Sherlock with her hand outstretched. "No hard feelings?" she said.

Sherlock stared at her for a moment, then shook her hand with what might have been a mocking smile.

"I suppose not," he said.

Mary smiled and went to sit with Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock walked into the kitchen and John followed.

"She seems very understanding," Sherlock remarked.

"Yeah, she's great like that," John said.

Sherlock made a face that clearly said he didn't believe her, but John decided to ignore it.

"So," Sherlock said. "They both know. Are we going to tell the rest of them?"

"I hadn't really…do you want to?"

"I was asking you. I want to know what you think so I…"

"You sound nervous, Sherlock. I didn't think you cared at all what anybody else thought?"

"I don't," Sherlock said. "But you do."

John thought for a moment. "Well, it is a bit soon…if we can't decide what to do maybe we can just…go with the flow, and if anybody asks—"

"You're being slow, John," Sherlock interrupted. "I was never planning to tell them, make some 'happy announcement.' Honestly, do you know me at all? I was asking what you thought because I don't know if I can keep my hands off you for so long."

At those words Sherlock playfully grabbed John and sneaked a hand up his shirt. John slapped it away.

"Stop that!" John whispered, but he was smiling. "No, I don't care. Let's just see what happens, okay?"

"Okay."

The two walked back into the lounge to join the others. Soon Lestrade arrived.

"Blimey there's a lot of press down there!" He said, taking off his coat and scarf. "I hope you two are prepared.

"The press is nothing new," Sherlock said with a dismissive gesture.

Several minutes later, Molly arrived with her fiancé.

"Hello!" She said as she stepped into the lounge. "Everyone, this Tom. Tom, this is everyone."

John stared in surprise at the man. He was remarkably like Sherlock; same long coat and scarf, same hollow cheeks, same wild hair. Except _his_ face looked friendly. Sherlock drifted over to greet the newcomer, and as he shook his hand John saw him freeze and stare Tom up and down. John knew he was making the same deduction, and he could barely contain his laughter. As they sat back down John leaned over to Sherlock and whispered, "Did you notice—"

"Don't say a word," Sherlock whispered back.

"No, best not to," John agreed.

The rest of the party passed amiably, and soon John checked his watch and realized it was nearly time for them to go. He stood up and pulled on his jacket.

"Ready, Sherlock?" he said.

"Ready," Sherlock replied, pulling on his trademark coat and scarf.

"Oh John," Molly said, "have you set a date yet? For the wedding?"

John saw Sherlock stop in front of the door out of the corner of his eye. Mary looked down at her lap awkwardly, and John rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably.

"Well, uh…we-we sort of…"

"We've broken off the engagement," Mary said.

Everyone voiced regret at this news, and Mary hurried to explain.

"John and I have some…things to work out, for ourselves. Now's not the time for a wedding."

"Yes," John agreed. "We need our space for now."

"You know actually I'm not quite ready yet," Sherlock said suddenly.

He turned on the spot and moved towards John, full of intensity. When the detective reached him he grabbed the doctor by the shoulders and kissed him. Silence. John was too surprised to resist and quite frankly too passionate about Sherlock not to enjoy any moment of contact. After what was surely an uncomfortable amount of time for their audience Sherlock broke the kiss.

"There," he said, slightly breathless. "Now I'm ready."

He grabbed John's hand and pulled him towards the door.

"Come along, John!" He called. "We've got work to do!"

A moment later the door swung shut behind them. Sherlock stopped to lean against the wall, laughing quietly.

"What was that about?" John asked.

"I thought you didn't care?" Sherlock said.

"I don't, but you could have easily waited until we were out in the hall to kiss me."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "But I wanted to see the looks on their faces. Did you see them?" He was laughing again.

"I was a bit preoccupied with you to be honest," John admitted.

"Well, it was hilarious," Sherlock said. "The shock! Come one, let's listen to what they say."

Sherlock pressed his ear to the door, and with a shrug John did the same. Honestly, he was curious about what they thought. He was afraid of what they thought.

"And exactly how long has that been going on?" Lestrade said, and John could almost see him jabbing a finger at the door.

"Oh, I walked in on them this morning," Mrs. Hudson said, sounding giddy. "They were all over each other! Both fully clothed, thank god."

"I can almost hear Molly knocking back her champagne," Sherlock whispered.

"You know, I always suspected," Mrs. Hudson continued. "John always insisted they weren't a couple, but I knew. Really, you can't miss the connection between them."

"No, you can't," Lestrade agreed.

"C'mon Sherlock," John said, tugging at his hand.

"So are you finished worrying now?" Sherlock asked, following him.

John stared at him. "You…you did that because you thought I was worried?"

"Yes."

"Well, you needn't have bothered, I wasn't worried," John insisted.

"So you say," Sherlock said, and continued down the stairs with John in his wake to face the mob outside.

And John knew he'd love every minute of it.


	3. Seduce Me

A/N: The third chapter in this series, in which Sherlock challenges John to a daunting task. I only meant for this to be a three-shot, but I'd be open to writing more if people were interested.

*The song I imagine John playing for Sherlock is "Whispers" by Dave Baxter, but you can imagine any song you want.

 **Seduce Me**

Sherlock knew well the feel of pleasure; adrenaline coursing through his veins, dopamine moving likes electricity across his nerves. Throughout his life he had sought out the things that would release those chemicals, and he had found many things; making deductions, solving a case, the thrill of the chase, nicotine, cocaine—they were all his drugs. But then there was John. The doctor's effect on Sherlock was startling and intriguing. Kissing John, holding him, touching him—that gave him a high unlike anything Sherlock had experienced.

Affection wasn't something Sherlock understood, but it was definitely something he felt for John Watson. He had been trying to pinpoint exactly when his feelings of attraction had emerged, and finally deduced that it was when John shot the cabbie. Yes. The two men had met barely two days before, and already John Watson cared enough about Sherlock to find him and try to save his life. Admittedly he hadn't known that what he felt was affection and even love, but the feeling had only grown with time. And the two years in which he'd been away, they had deepened, until they burned into the heart he didn't know he had.

And now here he was lying on the sofa, fingers beneath his chin, and his feet resting in John's lap. They had been sitting there in silence for the past hour. The day had been long and tedious, full of press and trying to focus on new cases with the distraction of Lestrade being awkward just because he'd seen him kiss John earlier that week and John himself being endearingly impressed by Sherlock's deductions. None of the cases hadn't been the least bit interesting and the only reason Lestrade had consulted Sherlock was because the press needed their photographs and stories. How dreadfully dull.

"Bored," Sherlock said in his most dry voice.

"Hmm?" John said, not looking up from his book.

"Bored," Sherlock said, a little louder, "I said I was bored."

"I'm sure a good case will turn up soon," John said off-handedly.

Sherlock was annoyed by the lack of attention. "I hate being patient," he muttered. "Everything's so boring…bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored bored bored—"

"Unless there's something you want me to do about it, please shut up!" John shouted, annoyed at last.

That was the invitation Sherlock had been looking for.

"Seduce me," he said softly.

He watched as John's head jerked up, a blush creeping up his cheeks. He stared at Sherlock blankly.

"What?" he said.

"I said. Seduce me," Sherlock purred. "That's what you can do."

"I…y-you want me…me to…"

"Oh come on John, you can do it," Sherlock said.

"You're the one who's bored, why don't you try and seduce me?"

A smile curled Sherlock's lips, and he said, "I'm sure I'll be bored again."

John's mouth twitched as he thought. Finally he said, "Can't we just kiss?"

"Nope. Seduce me," Sherlock said.

"Well you're going to be disappointed then, because I don't know what to do!"

"You could tell me one of your fantasies," Sherlock suggested.

"Fantasies?" John repeated, clearly confused.

"You know, secret desires, erotic daydreams…fantasies."

"You have fantasies about me? You?"

"Of course, loads of them," Sherlock said, gazing up at the ceiling. "I have ten different ones just involving the riding crop."

To Sherlock's extreme satisfaction, John blushed bright crimson. He cleared his throat awkwardly and put down his book. Sherlock studied John's face as he thought; the wrinkle of his brow, the firmness of his jaw, the distant quality of his eyes. Suddenly an idea lit up his eyes, and he turned to grin at Sherlock. He laughed.

"Wait here, I'll be back," John said, springing up from the sofa and hurrying up the stairs to his bedroom.

Sherlock sat up and watched him go, his stomach tightening in anticipation. He walked over to the window, peering out between the blinds at the dark street below. It was late, and few people were about. Angelo was closing his restaurant down the street. He wondered what John was planning. He didn't see John as the seductive type, which was part of the reason he had made the request; he wanted to see what John would do. How much did he know—deduce—about Sherlock? Sherlock already knew John could play him like a violin…he was incredibly good at it, in fact. But could he tune that same instrument?

So wrapped up in his thoughts was Sherlock that he didn't notice John had reentered the room until the music started playing. Soft piano, slow and mournful, he thought. He turned around to see John had placed his laptop on the desk. That's where the music came from. John looked up, sensing Sherlock's eyes on him, and smiled, holding out his hand. Sherlock was confused. His gaze flickered from John's hand to his face, frowning.

"Dance with me," John said, knowing the question though no word was spoken. Of course he knew.

Curious (and a bit nervous), Sherlock stepped forward and took John's hand. John pulled him close, guiding his other hand to rest on his shoulder, placing his own hand on Sherlock's. Then they began to move with the music.

Sherlock was not unfamiliar with ballroom dancing, but a traditional waltz didn't seem to be what John had in mind. Their dance was informal, a simple swaying in time with the music. As he listened to the lyrics, Sherlock realized it was not mournful, but instead…he wasn't sure what word to use.

As they swayed, John leaned up gave Sherlock the most gentle kiss. Sherlock felt an odd fluttering sensation in his chest, and suddenly a word came to him; loving. He felt a burning in his eyes, and he closed them as he kissed back. John's lips drifted away to explore his jaw, the hollow of his neck, his ear. Sherlock sighed. If he had a hundred years, even then, he never could have constructed this scenario as a possibility…not even a fantasy. He gripped the soft wool of John's jumper, no longer hearing the words of the song; the music was simply a part of the surroundings. Their hands moved simultaneously; John's to Sherlock's neck, Sherlock's up John's back. Their lips met again, and this time Sherlock deepened it, pressing in, allowing his mouth to open against John.

At this sign of eagerness John gripped Sherlock harder, then pushed him back until he was pressed up against the wall. Excitement erupted through Sherlock's veins, and he moaned under John's caresses. Yes.

"Sherlock," John whispered, "do you know what you do to me?"

"Show me," Sherlock said, his desire blotting out the intended demand, making it more like a plea.

"Not bored now, are you?" John whispered in triumph.

The only response he got was another moan. But this seemed to be an acceptable response. John kissed him again, nibbling on his lower lip in a way that was really quite maddening. Sherlock grabbed John's sandy hair and started pulling on it, now desperate for his touch, his kiss, his embrace.

"Got you," John laughed into his neck.

 _Excellent deduction, John,_ Sherlock thought.


End file.
